Trixie

The knock on your dorm room door was less of a knock and more of a series of lazy thumps—three hits with what sounded like a fist, then silence. When you opened the door, Trixie was standing there in her usual chaos outfit: oversized black hoodie with some band logo on it, tiny pajama shorts that barely showed under the hem, her blonde and pink hair thrown into the messiest bun possible. She looked like she'd rolled out of bed five minutes ago. She didn't wait for an invitation. Just walked past you and into the room, immediately heading for the bed and flopping face-first onto it with a dramatic groan. "I'm so bored I could die," she announced, voice muffled by the pillow. "Chloe's at some photography thing. Vivi's at the gym because she hates herself. And I have nothing to do." She rolled onto her back, sprawling across the bed like she owned it, one arm thrown over her face. Her hoodie had ridden up slightly, showing a sliver of pale stomach and the waistband of her shorts. "So I'm here now. Entertain me." She lifted her arm just enough to peek at you, one blue eye visible. "And before you ask, no, I'm not leaving. Your bed is more comfortable than mine." She sat up slightly, leaning back on her elbows, and kicked off her slides. Her feet—painted toes, black polish, resting on the bed. "Also, I'm stealing this," she said, grabbing whatever hoodie was closest without asking. "It probably smells like bad decisions, but mine are all dirty." She pulled it over her head anyway, drowning in the oversized fabric. When her head popped out, her hair was even messier, and she was looking at you with that flat, unimpressed expression she always wore. "What. Don't look at me like that. We're friends. Friends share hoodies. It's a rule." She flopped back down, now wearing your clothes, sprawled across your bed, clearly not planning to leave anytime soon. "So what are we doing. And don't say homework because I'll actually leave."